I nod quickly, gesturing toward his cock. “It’s a lot.”
He laughs, shaking his head, and I think I should be offended, or hurt, or some combination of the two, but I can’t. Because then he reaches down, batting my hand away, and pulls the fabric down enough to reveal my cock, standing proud, leaking down my shaft.
I grip the armrest hard, begging my cock to behave.
But then he wraps his hand around me, and I’m gone. He strokes once, twice, three times, fast, the only purpose to bringme over the edge, and I’m so close already that that’s all it takes for me to come. I bite down on my lip until I taste blood, my knuckles white on the chair, doing everything I can not to shout as he pulls every last drop from me.
When he doesn’t let go, I let out a high-pitched sound, oversensitive, but I don’t push him away. I want his touch more than anything. But he lets go, letting me breathe, and the moment he does, I already miss his hand.
“Okay,” he says, composed as ever while I’m crumpled in the chair I should probably replace before anyone else has to sit in it. “Now focus.”
I look up, still catching my breath. But he’s watching me expectantly, his cock still hard, and now that I can focus, my mouth waters at the thought of continuing what I started.
This time is different.
Without my own desire taking over my brain, I can actually pay attention, can feel him respond, can learn the things that cause him to make these quiet little sounds that make my heart clench. I take my time. I listen. I do what makes his hand tighten and come down to rest on my shoulder when he needs more balance, his other one joining it.
His thighs tense under my hands, and I feel the moment he loses his composure, squeezing my shoulders and his hips moving in slow circles as he groans, “more.”
I give him more.
Right now, I would give him anything.
He comes with a moan that threatens to make my exhausted cock stand up again, ready for round two. And I swallow every drop before I’ve made the decision to do so, sucking him through it, holding onto his thighs while he squeezes my shoulders too hard, curling over my head.
In the aftermath, it’s quiet, only the distant sound of traffic, far enough away that we don’t have to worry about anyone seeing us through the darkness.
When Will pulls out of my mouth, I sit back in my chair, wiping the come from my lips. He fixes his clothes slowly, at ease in his own body, because why wouldn’t he be?
“I thought,” I say, my voice coming out a bit scratchy, “you were never going to let me do that.”
He looks down at me, and instead of giving me the angry look he usually does, he laughs, shoving my arm lightly. “Shut up, man.”
This time, when he walks away, it doesn’t hurt so bad.
Will got a car.
He and Frank had been talking about it for the last few weeks, and the need to Uber anywhere he wanted to go was getting expensive. So he got a car.
I know this because he’s texted me about it three times this morning. And considering he hates me, and he has never once, in the last two months, used his new phone to text me, he must be pretty excited about it.
I’m happy for him, I really am, but I haven’t had time to respond.
Because the flu has officially hit Rosehill.
Victoria called in sick this morning, leaving me alone to handle the front desk with a full schedule of patients and a waiting room full of walk-ins. I didn’t even consider asking Will to manage them, after how overwhelming it was to him on a normal day.
Today has not been a normal day.
I’ve been answering them myself, between patients, while also trying to fit people in when I can.
I’m starting to regret not calling Nora back.
She was the right candidate, and she would have made today so much easier. But I let Will flirting with her talk me out of hiring her, and now I have no nurse and no receptionist, and I’m about to give up.
The phone rings again.
“Murphy Family Medicine,” I say, tucking it between my ear and shoulder while I hand a patient a sign-in sheet and a clipboard.
